


The Many Names of One Satya Vaswani

by beanplague



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 19:31:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19979341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beanplague/pseuds/beanplague
Summary: You will be called many names over the course of your life, but first, you are called Satya.[a fic done for the overwatch girls zine, to the moon and back! i have a link to the tumblr page for the zine in the notes.]





	The Many Names of One Satya Vaswani

_Satya_ is the first name you’re ever given, and it’s under the usual circumstances. It means _truth._

You hear it a million times over the course of your life. You hear the stern _Satya Vaswani_ from your parents whenever you ask too many questions or don’t meet the eyes of a stranger. You hear the neutral _Satyas_ from your peers, dozens of curious children either inviting you to play with them (you never accept the offer, but you remember those who extended it) or dismissing you altogether. You hear the many, _many_ words of praise from your teachers and parents and such. _Satya,_ they always say, tones soft and kind before moving onto the many bright things in your future and the goals you must set for yourself.

For the longest time, you don’t really have a _goal._ You have vague, hard-to-define dreams. You have dreams where you fix everything wrong with the life that you live. Dreams where you make enough money to get someone who isn’t your father to fix the leaks in the kitchen, or maybe you become skilled enough to do it yourself; dreams where you don’t eat the same dinner multiple days in the row; dreams where your mother never looks at the family funds and sighs.

And through this, you know that you will find success in these strange, knowledge-oriented talents you have, though you sometimes think of other, less important things.

(Like dancing, though you loathe to admit it. In most instances, moving your body feels very routine. You move it when you have to—but when you _dance,_ that is when you truly move. When you truly _feel.)_

Yet, you must push these less important things aside. You must follow the dreams that will allow you a future. You must follow the dreams that give you the outcome you need.

And these dreams take you far and away from your simple lot in life. Often, you scramble to the rooftop of your simple home and just look up at the night sky, dark blue and stained with starlight, and you try to _dream._ You try to define what it is you want. You try to understand.

You spend twelve years being _this_ Satya. This Satya who sits on the rooftop and stares up at the sky, unsure of her dreams but determined to reach the horizon—metaphorically or otherwise. This Satya, you will think in retrospect, has a bright future ahead of her.

Vishkar thinks the same.

* * *

The architects call you _Satya_ when they talk to your parents, but there is something different in the way they say it. It is less personal, and more fascinated. When one of them speaks to you—kneeling down to meet your eyes—she says, _“Satya,_ would you like to hear about our mission?”

And she sounds friendly—familiar, even. She doesn’t sound like the other architects, gathering your things and yammering to your parents, so you look back at her and you nod. She offers you a kind smile.

“We are going to make the world a better place,” she says, “We’re going to change things, _so_ many things, Satya. You have no idea,” she is still saying your name like she knows you, “And we need someone like _you_ to help. You have talents that no one around you could dare to dream of, dear.”

You look everywhere but to the woman in front of you. You glance at the floor and to the kitchen table, where your mother and father and an architect sit. You glance to the front door, and you wonder if Vishkar’s academy has the same view of the stars that your rooftop does. You glance to her again.

“What will I have to do?” you ask, and she smiles brightly in response.

“I’m so glad you ask, Satya.”

* * *

You say your goodbyes—to your parents, mostly. The very few peers who care to see you off are gone with a few farewells and very minimal tears. One of them hugs you, which is… not bad, but not very good, either. You have so much going on, and a hug is just… so very much. You’ve already been preparing yourself for the inevitable hug with your parents, which would undoubtedly drive you to tears—that is, if you weren’t such a brave and intelligent girl, far too old to weep in your parents arms.

“Satya,” your father’s voice is soft. He pushes your dark hair behind your ears and presses a kiss on your forehead. You are standing in front of your doorway, all your possessions safely packed in the back of a Vishkar-sanctioned vehicle. “Make us proud out there.”

Your mother doesn’t say much of anything, she simply looks at you and then to the car parked in front of the house, before pulling you into her arms. Your father joins wordlessly, and you can hear your mother sniffling as she holds you.

And you don’t cry.

You won’t.

You are far too old to cry, and you are certain you’ll see them once again, and you just… won’t cry, here.

Though you can feel the tears gathering behind your eyes, and the heat flushing your face, and the itchiness in your throat, you won’t cry. You know that crying will only make it worse for you. Worse for your parents.

And so, when they release you, it is a blessing, because you know that a second more would have been—it would have made you—oh, does it really matter?

Your final goodbyes are polite and respectful, and you maintain your composure in front of Vishkar and the family you are leaving behind.

The kind architect from before says, “Satya, you’re going to be great,” and for a while, this will be the last time anyone calls you _Satya._

* * *

At Vishkar, you are _Vaswani,_ for the most part. You are a professional, now, or at least you’re training to be one, and those who will help you achieve that professionalism are less interested in _you_ and _your name_ and the fact that it means _truth._ They are interested in your talents. They are interested in the results you can produce.

You don’t really have any friends, here, nor do you have family. You have no roommate, either, and so most of the company you get in your isolated dorm is in the form of abstractions. You become familiar with the large, square window beside your bed. You befriend the sky above you. Totally starless, inky black. And though light pollution separates you from the stars, the moonlight still manages to find you. You and your square window and your lonely little room. It is here that you first realize that every view you have had of the world has been distinctly crooked; from the roof you used to sit on to the wispy and undefined nature of your adolescent dreams. Yet, instead of stars, you can see the buildings.

The myriad of buildings in Utopaea. The modern architecture, with pale skyscrapers and blue housing units, shining gold panels on the side of some buildings. You see how everything has its place, here. You see the balance in these things, and you think you can understand.

And sometimes you think of the starlight. How the sky seemed to nearly burst with it sometimes. How it seemed endless and ethereal all at once. How dynamic the simplest thing could be—and immediately the dream falls apart to you; because there is no balance.

There is no symmetry.

There are a million unaligned paths between those stars, a hundred unanswerable questions. During your time at the academy, you realize that life in the stars is untenable for someone like you—you realize that you require answers, that if you _want_ anything, a clear path must be made.

So you throw yourself into your work. You learn everything you can about absolutely anything you can—mainly hard-light manipulation, but you look into practical sciences, the fundamentals of architectural design, and despite it all, you still dance.

First, in the quiet and comfort of your own room, but later you take it with you to your studies. You incorporate it into your hard-light projects. Fluid and tranquil, smooth and steady; you move with a grace unique to the dances you perform. Your peers don’t seem to understand it at first, but you’ve never been one to pay their opinions much mind. After all, you are the one producing results, making unprecedented progress in your field as you progress.

You dance through life on a tightrope, carefully maintaining the security and symmetry you have cultivated through the years. You forget the stars and the moon and the vague metaphors of the sky and settle yourself on the ground. You define the undefined, you make a name for yourself, and that name is—well, it isn’t _Vaswani_ or _Satya_ for very long. (Though, in the future, people will call you other things. Some will call you a _hero,_ paving the way for a better world, while others will call you a _tool,_ used to construct a future she cannot fully comprehend the scope of. It is debatable who is right, but you will spend nights awake, wondering about the latter.)

“Vaswani,” says one recruiter, and you recognize her face—but mostly you recognize her voice. She called you _Satya_ when you first met. You were only a child, then—you wonder if she recognizes you in turn, or if she’s seen thousands of impoverished children and she’s spoken to them all with the same friendly tone she once offered you. (Inside, you know the answer, but you try to pretend that you don’t.)

She stands in your doorway, a smile on her face. “There _is_ a future past the academy, you know.”

Oh, you know. You’ve aimed, and you have hit the target perfectly.

You are eighteen when you leave the academy. The night before your official travel date, you stand at the window for the last time. Despite your best attempts, you can’t help but imagine stars in the sky, their light shining above the buildings. That, you think, is something to work on. For now, however, you can focus on other things. After all, you’ve just been given a new name.

It is an achievement that fills you with light (however briefly that light fills you, however hollow you might feel when it is gone) and a milestone that commits itself to memory, tattoos itself within your synapses.

They call you _Symmetra_ —and perhaps it doesn’t mean truth, nor does it connect you to your family (who you have never seen) but you could not have chosen a better name.

And surely, you think, you will live up to the image it projects. You will shape yourself to fit it, expand the light within you to fill the dark armor of the name. You will bring light into being, you will be the hero needed. And you will perpetuate this heroism through Vishkar.

You will live up to this name, Symmetra, if it kills you.

**Author's Note:**

> HONESTLY this piece was a lot of fun to write, once i got up to speed with it. i really do love symm so much, and if i ever do more overwatch stuff that isn't that one multichapter mcgenji (very likely) it's probably going to be focused on a fic between her and zarya.
> 
> this zine was such a joy to work w/ and i wholly recommend you guys keep up with it for limited leftover sales. it is extremely dope and, if i may, very fresh and smart brained. https://moonandbackzine.tumblr.com/


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